Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Alessandro Manzoni: The Betrothed

Now anticipation is an odd thing as we
all know – imaginative, credulous, and sure of its facts before the event;
difficult to please and overcritical when the time comes. Reality never seems
enough to it, because it has no real idea what it wants; and it exacts a bitter
price for whatever sweets it may have mistakenly supplied on credit.

There are times when one’s anticipation concerning a work of
literature seems to create a kind of parallel version of the work in one’s
mind, such that when one finally does read the book itself it comes off as
nothing quite like what one imagined. I’m not sure that I agree entirely with
the last sentiment in the quotation above from Alessandro Manzoni’s 1827 novel The
Betrothed, a book I’ve packed and unpacked during several moves without
ever reading it. In fact, my long drawn out anticipation supplied, on credit,
one kind of sweets, only to be rewarded and delighted with a different sort
with no bitter taste at all.

An historical romance in the literal sense and a kind of
Christian parable of faith and redemption, The Betrothed, set in Milan
and the Italian lake country, follows the star-crossed fates of young Lorenzo Tramaglino
and his fiancée Lucia Mondella during the years 1628-30 as their relationship
is repeatedly tested by the institutions of politics, the church, and social/class
relations, as well as famine, wars between city states and an epidemic of
plague. The novel’s romantic aspects are in full flower, with characters in
strong relief: villainous villains and heroic heroes, dastardly bravoes and
damsels in distress, and a cast of memorable minor characters (one favorite: a
humble tailor obsessed with reading literature and philosophy). Forming the
core of The Betrothed is the Christian transformation of a powerful,
wicked warlord, scowling at the joy of the people in village below his mountain
keep, into a large-hearted, generous hero (a scenario so resembling Theodor
Seuss’ How The Grinch Stole Christmas in certain particulars that I
began to suspect Seuss might have lifted the idea right out of Manzoni). The
historical side of the novel is often exactly that: whole chapters in which the
story of Renzo and Lucia, temporarily held in abeyance, is replaced by richly
researched historical accounts of the warring states of pre-republican Italy
and the epidemic scourge of the plague, replete with references to the texts
consulted and conveying a surprisingly gripping realism.

This is a large novel with a labyrinth of avenues to explore,
but in the interest of brevity, I’ll just mention a few elements I particularly
appreciated.

The first is Manzoni’s charming narrator and his employment
of a familiar framing device: the ascribing of his story to another.The Betrothed begins with a
page-long excerpt from a “defaced and faded” manuscript from 17th
century Italy. While “wrestling with the job of deciphering a large blot which
came after the word ‘Accidents,’” the narrator decides to abandon his attempt
to transcribe the document, seeing it as “nothing but turgid declamation built
up out of heavy-footed solecisms; and running through it all…that fatuous
stylistic ambition which is so characteristic of the writings of the time in
Italy.” But rather than totally reject “such a good story,” he elects to “take
the sequence of facts contained in his manuscript…and merely alter the
language.” This device – a way in
part to shift the author’s responsibility for the work to an imaginary other
and so deflect censorship or worse (in Manzoni’s case it appears to have been
done perhaps as much from delight as from caution about offending certain
important families) calls to mind similar strategies used, for example, in
Fernando de Rojas’ Celestina and Cervantes’ Don Quixote, but its
use here is perhaps the most clever I’ve encountered in my reading, and the
invented excerpt is a riotously executed tour
de force.

Manzoni’s delight in constructing this manner of framing his
story carries over to the rest of the narrative, recounted in a conversational
tone finely attuned to the narrator’s readers, with a strong awareness of the
audience and of what makes good literature (the narrator makes several
references to authors whose work is unlikely to withstand the test of time,
and/or likely to be found piled up “in the second-hand bookshops”). Long
passages, particularly the historical ones, are invariably followed by a gentle
apostrophe to the reader and a promise – immediately fulfilled – to return to
the story of the young couple, with a coy mea
culpa to the reader for having abandoned these key characters for so long.
The novel’s somewhat clunky structure, with many lengthy digressions, is saved
by this graciousness, the narrator always paying keen attention to righting his
leaning story and offering the reader more than a few self-deprecating comments
(i.e., in reference to a character, “…he was as anxious to reach his journey’s
end as certain of our readers may be.” 692).

I was also struck by Manzoni’s keen insight into social
relations across a wide swath of society and social institutions, as well as an
eye for observing behavior particular to an age. His novel takes in all
classes, but focuses especially on the plight of common people, presenting
their day-to-day lives with a fullness that called to mind the paintings of
Pieter Brueghel the Elder. He exposes the inefficacy and hypocrisy of
authorities and laws (The Betrothed’s focus on matters of justice
extends from the laws of the country to the most intimate interpersonal
matters). Manzoni also demonstrates a fascination with the sociology of mob
behavior (featuring some genuinely frightening scenes of what mobs are capable).
Early on, I feared that the book’s moral core, so strongly Christian, might
turn into a collection of homilies and remonstrations. Instead, Manzoni proves
to be an empiricist committed to evidence and intellectual inquiry, dismissive
of the superstitious and self-serving aspects of religion (which get pilloried
in The Betrothed), and to have taken the Christian notions of redemption
and forgiveness to heart in a profound way. A speech by the book’s evident
hero, the Cardinal Federigo Borromeo (an actual historical figure) to a weak
and timid country priest serves not only as a magnificent piece of
philosophical argument but a genuinely moving plea for Christian responsibility,
commitment and sacrifice.

The Betrothed contains such a rich trove of literary
treasures that it would be hard to pick a favorite among them: the marvelous
language of the found manuscript that begins the novel; Father Borromeo’s
moving speech regarding the commitment of the priesthood; the unforgettable
descriptions of the plague’s ravages or of the marauding, warring hordes from
the north; an account of a riot over bread bristling with movement and tension;
the gently humorous graciousness of the narrator; even, perhaps, unexpectedly
inserted into the narrative, a brief but lush description of a humble home’s garden.
The narrator needn’t have worried about his readers (this one, in any case)
growing eager for the novel to end. I’d have preferred it to go on and on; The
Betrothed is a book I expect to return to again and again with great
anticipation.

It's the opening passage in chapter one that I love, the calm tracking shot across the landscape that runs and runs until finally, bang, the reader slaps up against the very person that it turns out they were looking for. They hit him so precisely that the writer even gives them the date.

This sounds appealing to me in many ways. The time and place it is set in, the plot, the framing device are all things that make me want to read this. I must also admit that the possible Dr. Suess connection is intriguing.

The Betrothed is #88 on Daniel S. Burt's list of The Novel 100. In retirement, I'm reading them in order. Yesterday, reading the chapter in which the Unnamed seems to soften in Lucia's presence, I thought about the Grinch, and when he opened his window to the sound of bells and saw villagers progressing in the valley, I was sure Seuss has read this part. Today I googled simply "Seuss Manzoni" and was linked to this blog. At least two of us agree!

Terrific! Getting a response like this makes the whole enterprise of keeping a literary blog rewarding. What a thought, though - that Dr. Seuss may have taken his story directly from Manzoni! I'm half-tempted to re-read all the Seuss works of my childhood to see if there might be other such inspirations lurking in them.